


Double Tap

by Anonymous



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gun Violence, M/M, Murder, Necrophilia, Tooth Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27103114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: December doesn’t beat around the bush. He finds the easiest way to fulfill an objective and gets it done. Whether it’s stealing, fighting, or fucking, it doesn’t matter however clean or messy the finish. If August were here, he might have wanted a more careful plan, or at least to talk first, to find out what happened and why.December doesn’t care about any of those things.
Relationships: Mikage Hisoka/Utsuki Chikage
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	Double Tap

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings for: On-screen murder (violence, blood, gore, death), necrophilia, body horror, mentions of tooth horror, torture (of a dead body) and human taxidermy. None of these warnings are ironic or a joke.**
> 
> Role Reversal AU where April is the supposed traitor and December is left behind. 
> 
> I wasn't going to post this but I know the anon who posted the _first_ December necro fic, and I'm not the anon who posted the _second_ , so you're telling me that there's _THREE_ of us Decrophilia anons out here? Wild.

December doesn’t beat around the bush. He finds the easiest way to fulfill an objective and gets it done. Whether it’s stealing, fighting, or fucking, it doesn’t matter however clean or messy the finish. If August were here, he might have wanted a more careful plan, or at least to talk first, to find out what happened and why. December doesn’t care about any of those things. That’s why the moment he lures April into the empty warehouse, he pulls the trigger.

Bang.

Right through the forehead. Perfectly accounting for April’s instinct to dodge left, as if December wouldn’t know. His body hits the concrete ground with a crack, glasses breaking on his face. December doesn’t hesitate, stepping closer to double tap in the back of the head. There’s almost no way that anyone could survive the first bullet to the brain, but he refuses to take risks. After all, this is April.

Or was April, at least. It feels empty, anticlimactic even, when December checks his vitals and confirms that he really is dead. He hadn't expected it to be that easy. April had always known how to put up a fight. That’s why it had been so difficult, tracking him down to that theater company he’d been staying at for god-knows-why, baiting him out here despite the bullshit amnesiac act. A pretty tacky cover, even by December’s standards, and a much worse lie than usual. Not that it matters anymore. He’s dead and August is avenged, and that’s all that December came for.

The Organization has protocols for how to dispose of bodies, but at the moment, December doesn’t particularly care. He can hear August nagging at him to clean up and head back to the hideout already, but this isn’t the corpse of any random mark: it’s April’s. August’s killer. A traitor to his own family. His death may have been quick, but December has no intention of letting it go unremarked.

Blood pools at his shoes as he kneels down to remove the cracked glasses from the corpse’s face. Its expression is frozen in surprise, without a single spark of remorse or recognition. Though it’s hard to tell, when the light’s already faded from its eyes. December reaches out to close the corpse’s eyes, not out of any particular sentimentality, more because he doesn’t want that petrified, pale blue stare fixed on him any longer. Maybe April really didn’t remember what he’d done, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still to blame for August’s death. Memories or not, this is still April, with splashes of chemical burns on his wrist, the remnants of a gunshot wound on his shoulder, puckered cigarette burns down his side. December confirms each of these marks on the body that he knows to be that of August’s killer, and is filled with a surge of post-hoc conviction with each wound that he uncovers. This _was_ the right man. He _was_ right to kill him.

April’s body is still warm.

It won’t be warm for much longer. It’s the dead of winter, and December hadn’t been precious with how he’d removed its clothes to check its scars. As he manhandles the corpse’s limp torso and ragdoll limbs, he notices its skin is already growing pallid and sagging as blood drains and tension fades from its muscles. As much as he tries to bury any of those memories, December can’t help but feel morbidly amused at how quiet and obedient this corpse is compared to how its owner was in life. The mouth that used to fire off snappy insults and acerbic lies now gapes open listlessly on a barely-hinged jaw, its formerly poisonous tongue now lolling out comically. December’s gaze tracks the drip of saliva down the chin of a mouth that can no longer close. That mouth is so pliant and empty and still so _wet_ , and December feels a shudder travel down his spine.

April is so helpless like this, and December deserves to celebrate his victory, at least a little.

The body is harder and heavier to maneuver than he remembers, with none of its muscles holding their weight, but December manages to lay it belly-down between his legs, pulling its skull against his crotch. Like this, the blood from its forehead oozes onto December’s pants, and where his fingers grasp against green hair on the back of its head, almost digging into the gruesome exit wound. December exhales heavily through his nose, thrill coursing through him again and this time it definitely leads to his dick. Throughout his tenure as an agent, December’s gotten off to some pretty sick things, but this probably takes the lead. August would definitely disapprove, but December has barely slept a wink, let alone gotten off, since he died, which is probably the only reason why this is affecting him the way it is. December experimentally grinds his budding erection against the corpse’s chin, and feels his lips spread in an unbidden smile.

It only takes one hand to undo his pants and pull his dick out, while the other hooks its fingers into the corpse’s mouth, dragging it wide open for him to shove his cock in. The dead body doesn’t know how to cover its teeth but it also lacks the strength to bite, let alone a gag reflex. This gives December free reign to thrust in as rough and deep as he likes without worrying about things like choking or letting his partner breathe. He bucks his hips arrhythmically while pulling the head on and off his dick like a fleshlight. It’s easily the worst blowjob that this mouth has ever given him- there’s no suction, no tongue, and the hole is getting drier and drier with every thrust, its body no longer able to generate new saliva. But December’s cock is still getting harder and getting off, somehow, and it’s not like the corpse is able to protest.

It’s too much work and not enough, even with December’s hips snapping up to bend the head back against its neck in a way no living partner would ever allow. Objectively speaking, there’s no way fucking the mouth of a corpse actually _feels_ _good_ , but the twisting of December’s fingers in bloodstained green locks, the shallowness of his breaths and the tightening at the pit of his stomach, all blatantly say otherwise. It might be from the hyperventilating or sleep deprivation, but December feels lightheaded with pleasure at how much he could inflict on this body, how much more he could do without a single complaint or protest. Could he fuck this mouth until its teeth fell out? Could he push this head back until its neck snapped? Could he paint his jizz along the insides of April’s blown-out skull, then rip his chest open and fuck it even more? There’s so many options and only one chance and not enough time before this body grows stiff and decayed. If only August were here, December thinks, not for the first time. August would know how to preserve this body, stretch its skin and stuff its insides to keep it a perfect doll, quiet and fuckable and unable to lie or betray _anybody_.

That’s the thought that pushes December closer to the edge than anything else. He tears his cock out of the corpse’s mouth and his hand can’t get on it soon enough, jerking himself in rough, unpaced strokes until he cums in stuttered breaths and spurts. It’s far from the best orgasm he’s had, December wouldn’t even venture to say that it was good. But he’s pent up and miserable and there’s something horribly perfect about the first time he’s cum since August’s death being all over the face of his killer’s corpse.

December leans back, breathing heavily as he surveys the view. There’s some of his jizz trickling out of the body’s open mouth, an ooze of it dribbling over its closed eyelid. There’s even some streaks of white mixed in with the congealed blood of the fatal gunshot wound, and if December wonders if hetilted the head backwards would more drip out the back of its skull.

April doesn’t complain about the cum on his face, or cough from how rough December fucked his throat, or do or say anything. He can’t, he just lies there unmoving because he’s dead. December’s sure of this, because he’s the one who killed him, because he killed August.

It’s fucked up. It may be April whose brains splatter the warehouse floor, but December’s the one who feels hollow, as if along with all the hatred and revenge he’d spurted out the tiniest last bit of himself that he had.

Now all he’s left with is memories to forget, and a body to get rid of.

December looks at April’s cold body, and wishes he could curl up against it for a long, long sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
> 
> Heh. Decrophilia. Heheh.


End file.
